Best Maine Poems
The dragonflies danced in the crisp Maine air
on a draft from the ocean deep.
Their delicate wings teased the breeze
high up on Mount Battie’s Peak.
Blue-black they flew like the night time sky,
as the mica flecked granite shone,
Seeking nectar sweet from blueberries bushes
and their small white flowers’ cones.
The silvered sea was surreally framed by
a multitude of human eyes;
Dotted with miniature sailing boats
A scene full of wonder and sighs.
“Howdy Amos”, “Howdy Seth”, without a glance.
Amos t’aint much for words as he stares straight ahead
His gaze as straight as his furrows.
Amos is what you might call a “deep thinker”.
I watch as he bounces up and down on the plow hitch
The bells on his mighty Percherons jingling with each practiced step
As they perform their timeworn ballet with Amos their choreographer.
I wonder what Amos is thinking and then I remember our last conversation.
Did I say Amos t’aint much for words?
Well, it seemed as though his “word dam” had finally overflowed
As he told me about the girl he met
At the Limerick Town Hall dance last Saturday night.
He said he watched the most wonderful girl in the world dance with every guy
Who was standing in line for their turn listening
To the out-of-tune piano player and drummer
Who called themselves the Limerick Two.
During the band’s first break, she came over to where Amos was sitting.
Smiling, she introduced herself as Irene from just down the street.
Amos didn’t disappoint her because, as usual, he was at a loss for words,
But he was a “deep thinker”
And he was thinking she was the most beautiful girl in the world.
“Would you like to dance?” She asked. Amos just nodded his head.
Amos was the last guy she danced with that night
As Irene's waiting line kept getting longer and longer.
Amos said his feet didn’t touch the ground as he walked home
To West Newfield late that night.
Amos t’aint much for words,
But when he speaks, his words, though few, are poetic.
As I watch Amos plowing with horses, I know what he’s thinking.
He’s thinking about next Saturday night and his first dance with Irene.
I turn my back and continue my journey,
The sounds of the great Percheron’s bells fading in the distance
As Amos continues plowing with horses and dreaming of Irene.
I have a memory of those days
In Maine, with crashing coastal waves
When reading was a future right
Mom read, “Blueberries for Sal” at night
And that huge nameless tree in the field
At dark, a dinosaur concealed
Walking a stray black cat with a string
That ran up a tree and could not cling
Mom had to climb that tree, pregnant
And retrieve the remains and remnants
I remember those days, quite well
And the fake Christmas tree smell
The revolving multi colored light
That lit our fake tree until Twelfth night
In Maine there is snow, whiter than white
And memories that induce me to recite
There once was a pretty girl from Maine
That her beauty spread to Spain
She didn't want to marry
Because the man's name was Larry
So the people thought her insane
NOTE: I'm having a ball finding all my old poetry. I wrote this when I was 11! So much fun reading my old things. :D
Step between the clumps of weed
and tangled traps of trash. Footprints
in the shallow face of the damp sand
fill with pooled water.
Look out, past the wide horizon,
the stretched, vast blue;
point to the pinpoint, where the hazed
hot sky meets the bumping, cresting waves;
walk, in between the hordes
of Canadian tourists speaking in clouds
of broken French
feel the dry sand hot
as it collapses around your ankle
“We’re walking to the palm reader —
Yes, In between the arcade and the train tracks.
Come with us.
This beach never changes. The brine
still clasps on the wooden legs of the Pier,
as it always has. The gulls still
swarm down on scraps of fries. Empty bottles
of coffee brandy still litter the darkness
of the Pier's underbelly.
Long ago, I thought I could see England
from this beach. Long ago,
I thought I could swim to England from
this beach.
Long ago, when I was a child, I was a tourist
walking these sands. I had a friend who lived here. We would
eat pizza and bodysurf in the shallows…
My friend left this world.
He didn’t swim to England, or swim across the sea.
He floats above my everything, as high as the open hazed blue ocean sky.”
C’mon up the porch ‘n sit a spell.
Pull up a chayah ‘n give your dogs a rest.
Wanna beeyah (some call it beer)? Mountain Dew?
Lemme tell ya why I find Maine is the best.
Showah, we drop our r’s and add some too,
and we don’t ansah questions, we tell stories.
We don’t always have much, but take pride in ours,
and, like most, we go to bed with our own worries.
We pahk our cahs, we drink our beeyah,
our accent can make us sound adorable and slow.
We work very haahd, and we play haahd, too
and we laugh at the world because we do know.
We are varied, we are mixed, we come from all over.
Our towns reflect our heritage from Stockholm to Belfast.
There’s London, Sweden, China, Mexico. Norway, Moscow.
Athens, Naples, Paris, Peru … an olio of tolerance to ever last.
Our state is beautiful and you flock to it in droves,
for the foliage, the coast, Ba-Ha-Ba and so much more.
Katahdin is our highest climb and Acadia is on the coast.
And, including mud season, we have more seasons than four.
Ayuh, Maine is great, in my point of view, for I’ve seen them all
and I found each is unique in its own way.
Maine is beautiful. It is slow, it is peaceful; the way life should be.
Finish your drink? Hope you have a great day.
the top state,landwise
in the continental way
alaska goes star
Yankee Doodle went to Maine
Riding on a snail.
By the time he reached Bangor,
He was old and frail!
For my sister, Sami, because this morning one of our four Maine Coons suddenly and unexpectedly died...
Haughty snobbish tomcat
tap water trample cat
never inside brat
inferiority complexity
acrobat
My Maine man
My Coon, I didn't expect
you'd go so soon
***
June 3, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
The White Cliffs of Maine
The Sequin Island Lighthouse
Haunting Spirits, walk
The sound of, Piano
OVER and Over Again
Lighthouse lights the Night
Inspired by the Contest : " In the Light of Haiku "
Sponsored by " Russell Sivey "
By HGarvey Daniel Esquire
Author's Note " The Sequin Lighthouse " is said to be Haunted
The Light Keeper Killed his wife because she played the same song OVER and Over
on The Piano He Bought her to please Her
Bar Harbor
Bah Habah is how they say it in Maine.
The cool summer breezes wash over the town.
Sailboats ride at rest waiting patiently at their moorings.
Lobstah fishermen load their traps, hoping for a prize haul.
Ospreys and seals vie for the best fish.
Acadia National Park beckons bikers and hikers.
Icy waters from the Labrador Current will chill the body,
The view from Cadillac Mountain will thrill the soul.
Tourists feast on the fresh sea harvest, followed by Indian pudding.
Ahh, Bah Habah in the summah!!!
Small boys in Maine
wear jackets in summer
late spring search for bugs and take nature walks
digging, turning over logs, sticking to trails
ankle deep in freezing water
fishing
shaking
not getting out
small boys in Maine
love the ride to town in the pickup
love the berries and the ice house
its cold here all winter, townspeople tell them
so could you cant imagine
they are thoughtful
like the north pole
worse
the old man growls
and poor Santa aint got whisky to make it through
ride back
bonfire picnic on the beach
cold waves
running up and down they swoop back for a bite of food
we drink coffee
watch their childhood
hold hands
I am powerless in mind and within my body,
This alcohol has got me down and I am paralyzed,
The world in which I call home cannot be analyzed,
All through this drink, with this I have declared my hobby.
My Friends do not respect me to which I cannot blame,
I am depressed beyond recognition and with it I feel shame,
Years without and years repressed and years I call lame,
Not one happy relationship, not with family or dame.
Salvation is coming and I keep telling myself bleakly,
Each day my sanity goes through hoops only to survive meekly,
The end has only that alcohol to calm my stress,
This alcohol feels as if I am saved from the rest.
I'm almost there and almost free from this asylum,
My friends around seem to care not even some,
I'm losing the fight even when both sides are done,
Three days until I'm home again...any longer and my life be gone.
(I survived and am now much healthier)
Rich dark blanket of night,
Silken wrapper, inducer of sleep,
You sooth the glare of harsh daylight strivings.
Half of the world sinks into rest.
Beyond the soft, tenebrous cloak: infinite brightness.
Into the dense fabric a droll designer deftly fashions
Small snips, eyelets, delicate cuttings,
Wheeling patterns – the geometry of whimsy.
Sprinklings of brilliance,
Sparkling clarity beyond imagining,
Dustings of ancient, newborn glitter,
Stars give a benediction to sleep.
My favorite place is any ocean space
Maine, a place with many beaches to visit
I love to smell, feel ocean air on my face
Pemaquid, Popham, Reed are all exquisite
Sand squishy under my feet, toes, slows my pace
Diving into cold waves, no fears inhibit
swimming, even when I feel too cold and wet
It's the best place to unwind with no regrets
2/3/19